Savage Beast
by Blue Seidr
Summary: "He is still hungry, starving now. He has not feed on prey in far too long. He should move on, but he can't. He needs to know why he can not kill this one. What stopped him from ripping the boys throat out the first night? How did the boy cast magic on him? It should not have been possible, the boy should not have even known he was there until he was already dead - yet he did." AU


**Hello, and welcome to another journey into my twisted psyche. Thanks for clicking on this oneshot, means a lot.**

 **Read, review, and enjoy!**

* * *

For his entire life, he had only known one thing for certain. There was only one constant, one single feeling that he could count on to be there. Everything around him changed, though he himself never did. Noises, sights, smells and tastes, they always changed eventually, morphed until they were new and unrecognizable, and he'd have to struggle to regain his footing.

The Hunt, though. The Hunt never changed.

It always began with an ache deep in his stomach. A tugging that made shudders of hollow pain ripple through him. Then came the feeling of something inside him. Not a physical presence, almost the opposite. A being of air, of nothingness, making itself known by pushing everything else aside. It grew, filled him up with itself and shoving any shred of humanity he might still cling to out of his mind, replacing it with emptiness, and an undeniable thirst.

And then The Hunt began.

Finding prey could be difficult sometimes. It couldn't just be the first thing that stumbled onto his path; it had to be the right prey. Like lions and wolves, he couldn't often go after healthy, powerful members of the collective, especially since he was solo. He aimed for a weak link in the chain, young or perhaps sickly (though he preferred not to, as he sometimes suffered the same ailment afterwards). He also avoided groups, for obvious reasons. Superb hunter that he was, he still couldn't manage to fight off more than 2 males at a time, and he did not want to have to deal with the pathetic law enforcement officers again anytime soon.

 _Still, finding prey could be fun,_ he concedes as he takes a deep breath of cool night air. The excitement of pinpointing your mark, waiting for the right moment to strike, releasing in the look of shock and fear on their faces . . . Nothing quite compared.

He is currently crouched in the shadow of a shrub that had been allowed to grow wild. All the more advantage to him as he remains motionless in his chosen stake-out point, darkness cloaking him from any wandering eyes that may have peered out of their living room windows.

A yard or so away from the shrub is a concrete sidewalk covered in chalk designs. Clumsily drawn stars, blobs that didn't seem to be anything at all, and shaky smiles act as a bright contrast from the drab gray of their canvas, just barely visible by the light cast from streetlamps positioned every 6 feet along the suburban neighborhood.

He is gowing a bit restless. He has been here since the sun set over an hour ago, and nothing had yet called out to him as a good target. He would travel elsewhere, try and find another spot, but he has already hit nearly every other neighborhood in this puny town over the last few months, and didn't want to risk attacking an already paranoid prey. They could be carrying weapons. No. Here, they would not be on their guard, and make it that much easier for him to act.

A slamming door breaks the relative silence that had been draped over the street, and it takes all of his willpower not to jump. The house directly across the road from him is the origin, and as he watches, a man and a woman, dressed in formal dining clothes, waltz out of the house, arm in arm.

"We'll be back by 11:00!" The woman calls to the house. Leaning out of the doorway is a short, skinny boy, sillouetted by a light inside the house. His hair is blond, but that is all he can tell about him from this distance.

"Don't forget to practice, and don't stay up too late." The woman continues, most likely the boys mother.

"I won't." The boy promises.

"And no wild parties or girls!" The father tacks on.

"Dad!" The boy groans, embarrasment coloring his voice.

"Just kidding, son." "Dad" reassures.

"Bye." The boy replies pointedly. His parents take the hint, and soon the headlights of their car are fading out down the road. The boy has disappeared back into the house, and the light downstairs is gone, replaced by a light in an upstairs window.

He licks his lips. A small boy home alone for hours? This is the most promising prey he has seen all night. Time to make his move.

Slowly unwinding from the crouch, he cautiously stretches his legs to work out any kinks. Then he darts from the bush to the side of the nearest house, careful to stick to the shadows as much as possible. The last thing he needs is someone to catch a glimpse of him, remember, report it to the police, and have another bounty stuck on his forehead. The total of all the rewards combined must be upwards of $100,000 by now.

Scanning the street to make sure it is clear of cars ( _surely, to be ended by an automobile because he neglected to look both ways would be the most embarressing way for him to go_ ), he slips to the other side, pressing his back to the side of his targeted house. A grin curls on his mouth, baring his teeth. He can practically smell the feast waiting for him.

He counts quitely in his head. His prey are often a little skittish immediately after being left home alone. He prefers his prey to be relaxed, unexpecting of what's to come. When his mental count hits 180, he figures that that was enough waiting. Digging his fingers into the slight grooves of the brick wall, he hoists himself off the ground, catching the toes of his leather boots on the extremely thin foothold offered by the house.

The window he's looking for is directly above him on the second floor. If anyone else attempted this climb, it was likely they would get absolutely nowhere, or only make it high enough to sprain their ankle on the way down. Not him, though. He had spent countless hours both on and off of the battlefield perfecting his climbing abilities. He could scale a 10 story building in less than 30 seconds - depending on what the walls are made. A 2 story ascent of a brick wall? He could get it down in his sleep.

His fingers find wider purchase on a windowsill, and he smiles grimly. Too easy.

He pulls the rest of his body free from the wall, hoisting the top half of him into view of the window. His legs hang free in the air, fighting the urge to scramble back for solid ground, and his arms hold him steady. There is not enough room for him to sit or even stand on the ledge. If he does this, it will have to be perfectly timed.

He peers into the window now, wondering exactly where his prey is located, and why the boy has not reacted to his presence. He spots the boy, agonizingly close, as if he could just reach through the glass and grab him. The boy has not seen him yet, and he knows why. The boy's back is to the window and him, his focus dominated by something in front of the boy. He crans his neck to get a better look.

The boy is sitting down on a rickity looking wooden bench that is only big enough for two. Jean covered legs and hip-tops are crossed over each other, and drab shaggy blond hair brushes the shoulders of a blue T-shirt. He sits before a large, polished black grand piano, and his hands are resting on the ivories, wrists perched on the edge of the keyboard. Sheet music is splayed on a small stand, black notes filling the measures.

He lifts a curious eyebrow, but mentally shakes himself. The boy could be stamp collecting for all he cares. Either way, the boy is about to be his for the taking.

Balancing on one hand, he slips a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out a knife, quickly returning to a two hand grip. He needs to pick up the pace; even he does not have infinite stamina, his arms already starting to protest the weight they are being forced to bear.

He lowers himself down, regaining his footing on the side of the house and positioning his elbows on the ledge. Using his knife, he starts cutting a hole in the screen that protects the glass of the window. It's quick, silent, and lessens any risk of him getting scrapped up as he crawls into the house.

The boy has began to play, it seems. The window muffles any of the melody that may have been able to escape the house, so all he can tell is that there is music. So he is a pianist. That must have been what the mother was talking about when she told the boy to practice.

The screen is gone, and careful to hold it so that it will not slice his hands, he tosses it to the ground below. Now, only a plane of glass seperates him from his prey.

What a lot of the prey did not seem to realize was that it was just as easy to open a window from the outside as it was from the inside. The little bar that hangs out makes it insanely easy to lift the glass and create an opening. _No wonder so many burglars come through the window_ , he mentally scoffs.

Of course, if it's locked, then he'll have no choice but to break the glass. The thing about windows on the second floor, though, is that they are hardly ever locked. ( _Idiots, the lot of them. I'm doing the world a favor.)_

Sure enough, the window is not locked, and with cautious ease, he silently slides the window open . . .

And is hit with a barrage of musical notes. They have no physical substenence, but they still pound against his eardrums like mallets, forcing their way into his brain. A fast and furious melody is being banged out across the white and black keys. The tempo is sweeping him along in a river of chords and measures, rising high before plummeting to thundering rumbles that shakes his core. It is an angry song, but one that has a hint of laughter about it. The player clearly knows something the audience does not, and a scheme is being carried out right underneath their noses. _Revenge_ , he thinks. _Avengement of a loss_.

Before he even knows it, the song is over, and minutes must have past. He curses in his head. How could he be so stupid? Caught up in the pitiful prey's music, wasting precious minutes that were to be used to attack. He steels himself to launch himself through the window and strike.

But then the boy begins to play a new song, one that can not be more different from the previous if it had been designed to be that way. This one is slow and soft, with the notes melting into one another like syrup. The melody flits through the air and around him.

It continues on like this in an endless cycle. A new piece will captivate him, only for him to shake himself and prepare to attack, only to be sucked back into the world of sharps and flats and become lost once more.

Before he knows it, car doors slam, and the boy rises and rushes out of the room to greet his returning parents.

He hisses in anger. How could this have happened?! How did something as simple as a piano keep him from his prey? How did the notes hypnotize him so easily? The boy could not have been aware of what he was doing. Or - was he?

It's too late now. He isn't crazy enough to try to attack tonight. The father is likely to have a weapon of some sort stashed away, and even he is not immune to bullet wounds.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would take the boy and interogate him. Then he would kill him, and feast.

* * *

Tomorrow comes. The parents do not leave. He waits for the next night. The parents do not leave. On and on, night after night, he comes back to the brick house of the blond boy, takes note of the car still parked neatly in the drive, and climbs up to the window.

The boy is dedicated, he'd give him that. Every night, it is the same. The boy sits in front of the magnificent instrument and forces life from it, playing everything from anger to joy to sorrow to calm. The boy never stops except to turn pages in his sheet music, and always plays until at least 11.

He is still hungry, starving now. He has not feed on prey in far too long. He should move on, but he can't. He needs to know why he can not kill this one. What stopped him from ripping the boys throat out the first night? How did the boy cast magic on him? It should not have been possible, the boy should not have even known he was there until he was already dead - yet he did.

He is stubborn. He is not going to let this matter rest until he had his answer. And if that means going a few more days without worthy prey, so be it. The boy will be left alone again at some point, and when it comes, he will be ready.

He feeds on animals he catches in the neighborhood. They keep him from dying, but they are far from a satisfying meal, not coming even close to ending The Hunt. The odd bird and squirrel is noting compared to his usual prey, and The Hunt, the urge to feed, will not fade until he has dined upon his chosen prey - in this case, the boy with the piano.

He could chose another target, but he is nothing if not patient. He must wait for the right moment, and pounce when it comes - and it will come.

* * *

Slamming car doors draw him out of his haze, and he clears his mind long enough to watch the car of the boy's parents drive away. He can hardly believe it; he had almost begun to believe that they would remain beside their offspring forever, somehow sensing the danger. But the prey are not that perceptive, and have foolishly left the boy free for the taking.

He no longer waits across the street; he has settled into a spot right next door, at another house that believes in letting its shrubbery grow wild. He can see the window from his vantage point, and the flash of a figure alerts him that his target is in position. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out two small balls. Ear plugs to muffle the sound. He won't let this boy get one over on him with the music again.

A few precious seconds, and he is clinging to the windowsill once more. No one has noticed his handiwork on the wire screen, and so no new barrier has been erected to stop him. The boys back is turned to him, already pounding the keys, but he can not hear a thing. He grins viciously. This time. This time he will bag his prey.

He pulls up the window glass, and drags himself lightly into the room. He gracefully stands, and just like that, he's in. Merely a few inches away from the boy, breathing down the bare neck hidden by a curtain of blond hair. He stares hungrily at the vein he can see pumping precious blood from the heart to the brain - and speaking of the heart, oh, what a lovely organ! He can see the pulse of the powerful muscle in the pathways underneath the boy's skin, directing the blood to where it is needed. That's always the best tasting blood, the blood that is still flowing, being pumped into his mouth by a futilely beating heart.

Then, for a split second, his eyes flicker away from the boys neck to the wall on the opposite side of the room. He had not been able to see it hanging in the precipice of the window, but now he can see it and the mirror that hung neatly on it, reflecting back an image of the piano, the boy, him. And the entire window.

The boy was playing still; though he could not hear the notes, he could see the boys fingers flying across the whites and blacks. As he stares at the image of the mirror - mind stuck, hung up on the idea that the boy might have been watching him _from the very beginning_ \- he watches the boy's brown eyes peek up from a layer of bangs, and connect with his mirror eyes. He instinctively ( _stupidly_ ) freezes. He tries to urge his body to move, to attack, but it will not respond. His transport is disobeying him. He just freezes, and watches the boys face.

The boy stares at his reflection, and slowly, a smile tugs at the corners of the boy's mouth until a grin greets him in the mirror.

"Hey." The boy mouths. The boy is speaking. To _him_. "I was wondering if you would ever come in. You've been hanging out there for days."

He blinks. He is speechless. He can literally count the number of times that has happened on one hand. to have absolutely nothing to say? It's unheard of in him. He can always come up with some kind of comment, even to rhetorical questions and statements. But now? He's got nothing. he reaches up a hand an tugs out his ear plugs so he can hear the boy.

"If you don't mind me asking, why have you been almost breaking into my house? I mean, usually burglars either come in or bail. They don't just hang around." The boy's accent is familiar, filling his voice, but not thickly. ( _British? Has he come full circle again already?)_

"I am not a burglar." The first words he has spoken in a long time come tumbling out of his mouth in a hoarse indignant huff.

"I figured that, especially since nothing has ever gone missing in the past few days." The boy nods. "So who exactly are you?"

"Your killer." He answers.

The boy does not scream, nor freeze and look upon him in terror. The boy blinks, several times, as if unsure of what he had heard, and tilts his head in puzzlement as he turns around on his bench to talk to him face-to-face.

"You're not very good at your job, then, because I am very much alive, despite the many chances you had to take me out." The boy responds as if talking about the weather. For a moment, he is thrown by the lack of fear, but then fury rises at the insult.

"I am an excellent killer. I have slaughtered more than you could ever imagine. If I have saved you for this long, you should be thanking me for allowing you more time in the land of the living." He hisses.

"Of course you are, and of course you have." The boy nods conversationally. "Sorry for insulting you."

His bewilderment skyrockets. Who is this boy?

"Who are you?" He asks.

"I believe I asked you that first."

"But as you are at my mercy, it would be beneficial to your extremely short lifespan to answer me first." He clenches his fists. The boy should be begging on his knees, pleading to be spared, not talking as if he discussed killings with him every day.

"For my killer, you sure haven't done your homework." The boy shoots off a grin. "I'm John. John Watson."

"Well, John Watson, in answer to why you are not dead, it is because I have questions that only you can get rid of. Be glad. It is the only thing that has bought you this extra time."

"So what happens when I answer these questions of yours?"

"You die."

"What if I don't answer them?"

"You die quicker."

"Giving me a choice here." The prey known as John smiles nervously, and he hides a smirk of his own. Finally, the appropriate amount of fear.

"How long have you known that I have been watching you?"

"How do I know you're not bluffing?" John responds with a question of his own. "I don't see any weapons. How do I know you could actually kill me?"

He simply pulls out his knife and flicks out the switchblade.

John's brown eyes widen, and he leans away from the razor sharp instrument. "Okay, you're serious."

"How long have you known that I have been watching you?" He repeats slowly, allowing menace to run hard in his words.

"Since last week, the last time my parents went out." John replies instantly.

So from the start, he thinks.

"Why did you not tell someone?" He asks his next question.

"I'm actually not sure." John says sheepishly. "When I saw you, I was internally freaking out. Someone was trying to break into my home, and my parents were out. My hands just started playing my music automatically, and you just got this look on your face, and then you just stayed there until I was done playing."

"Look?" He blurts out before he can stop himself.

"Yeah, like you were fascinated by the playing. I thought then that anyone who broke in repeatedly, to listen to music probably wasn't dangerous."

"You thought wrong." He runs a long pale finger over the edge of his knife.

"Listen, I don't know what I've done to offend you, but killing me is not the answer." John tries to persuade.

"It is nothing personal." He slips his knife back into his pocket. He doesn't need it.

"Just business, is it?" John rolls his eyes.

"More like survival." He corrects.

"Survival? I don't see what killing me has to do with survival."

"I do not have to explain myself to the likes of you."

"Why not?" John shrugs. "I'll be dead in a few minutes anyway."

He can't stop himself from quirking a small smile.

"It is not your death itself that I require."

"Then what do you want? Money? Collectable baseball card? You don't have to kill me for that, mate. You can just rob me at gunpoint - er, knife point."

"I do not want anything like that."

"Then what?"

"I do not have to tell you anything."

"Come on, if I'm going to die, shouldn't I at least know why?"

He rolls his eyes. Persistent little prey. Oh well. Like John said, he would soon be dead.

"I kill for the same reason you hunt deer."

"Actually, I don't hunt." John says first. Then, "Wait, you mean _for sport?!"_

He wrinkles his nose. "Of course not, you idiot! Why did people hunt, before there were those supermarket things?"

A pause. "To eat." Another pause. "You mean - you want to _eat me_?!" Pure disgust flows in his voice.

He shrugs. "I have to live somehow."

"What's wrong with beef? Or pork? Or deer meat?" John rattles off.

"It does not satisfy my appetite. I need human blood." He says shortly.

"Couldn't you get some from a hospital or something?"

He frowns. "They have blood at the hospitals?"

John gives him an odd look. "Yeah, you know, for blood transfusions and stuff. They literally have galleons of the stuff in refrigerators to give to dying people."

He shakes his head. "No good. The blood has to be fresh."

John hesitates before opening his mouth again. "Do you have to eat the person? Do you have to kill them?" He notices that John avoids saying _me_. "Or do you only need the blood?"

"Blood to me is like water to you. I need it to survive. You will not be able to convince me to abandon the practice."

"No, no. That's not what I meant." John rushes to say. "I meant, could you just take blood? Without killing the person."

He furrows his brow in thought. "Yes, but if I leave them alive, they tend to fight back, making it near impossible to get enough blood and get out before the police arrive. Also, I would have to hunt more frequently to maintain the proper levels."

John sighs. "Okay, well I have a deal to make with you."

He raises an eyebrow. A deal? This was getting interesting. "Go on."

"How about this; you don't kill me, you don't kill _anyone_ , and in exchange -" John swallows nervously, "- in exchange I'll let you drink my blood whenever you need it, within certain limits."

"Limits?"

"I can only offer so much blood at a time. I need blood to live as well, and time to replenish it." John explains.

"Hmm." He hums. Interesting. An almost endless supply of blood he didn't have to struggle for. It was a tempting prospect. Of course, he would have to go hungry some days if John was serious about the whole "no-killing-anyone" thing. And the urge to hunt would not disappear, but he could probably take that out on animals - strays, deer, wild turkey and other birds.

"Why would you even offer something like this?" He asks as he ponders the deal.

"Honestly? I don't feel like dying today. And I don't want you to kill more people."

"I am not remorseful. I have to live too, and you all bred like rats. Plenty to go around." He defends.

"I think I can understand that. That's why I'm offering. So that now, everyone lives."

"Caring." He scoffs.

"What's wrong with that?" John questions angrily.

"Caring is not an advantage, John. It only brings pain and misery."

"Where did you get an idea like that?"

He frowns. "Someone told me, once. A long time ago."

"Look, do we have a deal or not? Because if not, I'd like to spend what time I have left writing a farewell note."

It is an unusual arrangement, unlike anything he has ever done before, and he cannot say that about many things anymore. He has traveled the world and seen just about everything it has to offer. Who knows? Maybe something interesting could come out of this. And at the very least, he would have someone new to toy with, to talk to. It has been ages since he has someone like that.

"Alright, deal." He holds out a pale hand, and John shakes it firmly.

"One condition, though." He says.

"What?" John asks warily.

"Keep playing magic when I stop by."

"Magic?"

"You know, the way you translated magic into the music earlier."

John grins, amused. "That wasn't magic, mate, just old-fashioned playing."

He blinks. "That cannot be. It stopped me in my tracks, spellbounded me. It has to be magic."

John chuckles. "Sorry, but no magic here."

"Hmph." He huffs. "Either way, just keep playing." He will have to study this phenomenon. Perhaps John possesses magic that he is unaware of. A warlock, a rare being in this day and age.

"Can do." John salutes.

"Now that details are out of the way, let us begin before your parents return." He steps forward, and John steps back.

"Not going back on our deal already, are you?" He asks playfully, an undercurrent of steel in his tone.

"No, I just - just give me a moment to collect myself." John takes a deep breath as he sit on the piano bench, running his fingers through his hair.

John looks up at him. "What's your name?"

Blueish-grey eyes blink in surprise. "My name?"

"Well, if this is going to be a regular thing, I should at least know your name." John reasons.

He chuckles. "True enough." He sits next to John, pale hands directing John to turn his body sideways. Long, thin fingers pull John's ridiculously long hair to one side, exposing his neck, and John shivers slightly under his touch. _I must be cold_ , he thinks.

"You need to cut off this mop." He instructs.

"My parents say that too."

"Well, they are right." He brushes his own raven-black curly hair out of his eyes.

"Your name?" John prompts.

"Ah yes."

He licks his lips, and they curl away in a predatory snarl to reveal two overgrown canines in the upper row. A pair of pearly white fangs.

"I have not used my name in years. But a long time ago, before, I was known as Sherlock Holmes."

"Before what?" John's voice shakes.

"For Gods sake, John, use your brain. Surely even you can figure it out."

"Before - before you became this."

"Ah, so you can think. Bravo."

"Just get on with it!" John snaps.

Sherlock wraps an arm around John's waist, pinning John's arm to his side. He uses his other hand to get a firm grip on the side of John's head, to prevent John from pulling away. John gasps, and wriggles inside his restraints.

"Do not move, unless you want to get hurt." Sherlock growls, and John freezes.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and plunges his fangs into John's carotid artery. John stifles a gasp, but doesn't attempt to struggle. Good.

Sherlock pulls back up, satisfied with the holes he has made, and presses his mouth to the wound. Blood is already flowing out, and it splashes over his tongue. He moans in delight and begins to suck, drawing as much of the precious liquid into his mouth as he can. He swallows continuously, stopping only to take a few breathes through his nose before continuing. He doesn't, however, allow himself to get carried away. He has to keep this prey alive.

Far sooner than his stomach cares for, Sherlock pulls away for good. John is still bleeding, though, and he can't allow that. He reaches into a pocket on his trench coat and takes out a small yellow vial of sap. He uncorks it, and getting a small dab on the tip of his finger, rubs it over the two puncture wounds on John's neck. The bleeding stops immediately.

John is shaking, from loss of blood and fright, Sherlock guesses. Sherlock stands up and crosses the room to a bed tucked in the corner. He yanks off an orange blanket, and returns to drape it over John's shoulders.

"I thought vampires sucked blood through their fangs." John says faintly.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in surprise. "And how on earth are we supposed to do that?"

John shrugs. "I don't know."

"We use our fangs to get to the blood, as you just experienced. That's all."

"Good to know."

A silence falls between the two boys, neither sure of what to say.

"I shall be off." Sherlock finally says. "Your parents will be home soon, and they do not need to see me with you in this state. Do not wash off the salve. By the morning, you will be fully healed."

"Really? Thanks."

"Goodbye." Sherlock slid out the window and began to climb down.

"See you tomorrow?"

Sherlock pauses. "I will not need blood tomorrow."

"Well, duh." John rolls his eyes. "But I'd like to get to know you outside of being my personal bloodsucker."

"Oh. If that is the case . . . " Sherlock hesitates.

"Just knock on my front door tomorrow night. Say you're a friend of mine. My parents won't ask questions."

"Alright then." Sherlock nods. "I will do that."

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes."

It has been a long time since anyone has called him that. He has not realized it until now, but he has missed the sound of his before-name.

"Goodnight, John Watson."

* * *

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